


New World in My View

by ariaadagio



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: 2019 My Fearless Love, Canon Compliant, Father Frank - Freeform, Gen, Implied Deckerstar, Interstitial Scene, Light Angst, Lucifer in church, Season/Series 02, Uriel angst, ambiguous revelations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 08:58:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19826812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariaadagio/pseuds/ariaadagio
Summary: Lucifer & Ella attend Mass at the end of 2x08, Trip to Stabby Town, resulting in a revelatory discussion of recent deeds, old wounds, and lost friends.





	New World in My View

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lucks_eterna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucks_eterna/gifts).



> I wrote this story for the Fearless Love Fic Exchange, specifically for Lucks_Eterna, who provided me with the prompt song _We Don't Eat_ , which really resonated with me, because I'd already been hankering for a little more exploration of Lucifer's post-Uriel feelings. With this story in particular, I wanted to provide a little more connective tissue between the scene with Lucifer & Ella attending Mass, and Lucifer subsequently telling his mother that Earth is the only place he's ever felt wanted or accepted. Title credit to King Britt. Thank you so much to my betas Tarysande & Wollfgang, to Vee, for her info on the goings-on in Catholic Mass, and to all my Twitter friends for checking over my rusty Spanish translations :D 
> 
> Enjoy!

Lucifer Morningstar is the most hyperactive busybody Ella has ever met. If he's not animatedly chatting someone up, he's futzing with items in the setting—eyeballing paperwork, nosing through pencil cups, testing out staplers, checking the view through her microscope, twiddling with Decker's Newton's Cradle, squeezing Espinoza's grip trainers …. Which is why, as Ella selects a middle-ish pew for them, and they settle, she's unsurprised to find him leafing through the Bible, making derisive scoffing noises where he deems appropriate.

"Hey, don't bend the pages," she whispers, nudging him with her elbow. The crowd around them murmurs pleasant greetings to each other, unaware of the Devil in their midst.

Lucifer's hands pause, coming to rest midway through Genesis 2, and he peers at her, his gaze intent but not judging. "Tell me, why does this … this fiction hold any appeal to you, an esteemed woman of science?"

Ella shrugs. "Well … I don't think faith and science—" She waves over his shoulder at Judy and Julio, who wave in return, smiling. "—have to be mutually exclusive."

"Oh?" Lucifer replies, his eyebrows creeping upward.

"Do you have any idea the insane amount of _stuff_ that needs to come together to make a human being?"

His lip twitches like he wants to smile. "Indeed."

"I mean … I view the Bible as largely allegorical—"

"Some of it isn't," he interjects.

"You think it's literal?"

" _¡Hola, chiquita!_ " gushes Alonso from the aisle.

"Hey, Lons!" Ella replies, grinning. " _¿Cómo te va?" How's it going?_ She gestures at Lucifer. "This is my friend, Lu." She adds the "cifer" on the coattails of a cough. "Um. From work."

Alonso brightens. "¡ _Mucho gusto, señor_!" _Pleased to meet you, sir._ "Any friend of Ella's is a friend of mine."

" _¿Alonso, eh_?" says Lucifer, a predatory smile oozing across his face. His eyes rove Alonso's muscular build from head to toe. " _Que guapo eres_." _How handsome you are._ Lucifer shifts his attention to Ella. " _¡Creo que me encanta esta iglesia! Tanta gente hermosa._ " _I think I love this church. So many beautiful people._

Ella blinks. "Dude, you speak Spanish?"

" _Soy el Diablo_ ," he purrs with a graceful flourish and a bow. _I'm the Devil._ " _Por supuesto, yo hablo todos los idiomas._ " _Of course, I speak everything._

Alonso pales. "¿ _El … Diablo_?" _The … Devil?_

" _Sí, sí,_ " Lucifer says, nodding, " _estoy aquí_." _Yes, yes, I'm here._

Alonso gives himself the sign of the cross before scrambling away, down the aisle.

" _¿Fue algo que dije?_ " Lucifer calls after him, frowning. _Was it something I said?_

"Dude," Ella says, gaping.

He tilts his head, regarding her with an almost … defiant? … expression. "Yes?"

She catches a glimpse in his eyes. Of something darker. Something frothing and hurt and very, _very_ old. She clears her throat. "So, um, you were saying the Bible is literal?"

Whatever she thought she saw in his expression evaporates.

"Some of it, yes," Lucifer says. He returns his attention to the book clutched in his hand, flipping the pages. "Mind you, very little. There was no serpent. Only me. And no fruit, either. Only my—" He licks his lower lip suggestively, his eyes alight with a sudden mischievous glint. "—I suppose you are indeed correct. It's quite allegorical."

"Why," she says, grimacing, "do I get the impression we've suddenly descended into some kind of sex joke?"

"Ms. Lopez, in a house of worship?" He splays his fingers against his chest. "A naughty little nerd, you are."

She sighs, shaking her head. " _Anyway_ , the Bible being allegorical doesn't mean it's bogus, or that we can't derive meaning from it." She reaches for the book. When he gives it to her, she strokes the cracked, well-worn spine. "Evolution works with Intelligent Design just fine, only on a larger, slower scale, you know? Maybe God stirred primordial soup into the mixing bowl the way he did because Evolution was always part of the Plan. Who knows?"

"That's … not far off from reality as I understand it, actually," Lucifer admits before his expression darkens. "Not that we were ever made privy to the reasons."

"So … that's what you believe, too?" she asks. "That faith and science are kinda doing the tango?"

"Speaking of science and tangos, do ask me of the Big Bang, sometime."

"Come on," she warns.

"It's … not a matter of belief for me. I was present. I saw this world begin."

"Right. The Devil thing."

He doesn't reply; he only looks at her with his dark, unblinking eyes, and her breath catches. There it is again. That niggling impression he gives of something … _other_.

"But … like … what if you weren't method acting?" she says, clearing her throat when the words arrive squeaky. "I mean, what does the dude behind the Lucifer schtick think?"

"Ms. Lopez, I am _not_ method acting. My identity is not a _schtick_."

"Right," she says, nodding as she fist-bumps his shoulder in a gentle _solidarity, dude_ gesture. "Right, I know."

She doesn't miss the curious look he directs at his upper coat sleeve before the Entrance Chant begins, filling the church and her chest with the echoing sound of the pipe organ. Everyone stands, a loud rustle of bodies and clothing, even Lucifer, despite his miffed, "Bother, but I've only just sat down!" when she gives him an expectant look. With a put-upon, blustering sigh, he straightens, brushing off his sleeves, his lithe fingertips lingering where she touched him.

The thurifer leads the procession down the center aisle, tickling her nose with the scent of incense. The minister bearing the cross follows, then the acolytes with their thick, lit candles perched in silver holders, the lector presenting the Book of Gospels high above his head, and finally Father Ricardo, his white vestments flowing behind his strides. The night makes the stained-glass windows along the walls seem opaque, though the dozens of flickering sconces seem brighter in trade.

"Thank you for coming along," Ella says as the priest passes by. "It means a lot to me."

Lucifer tips his head in a slight nod. "A deal is a deal."

"Yeah, but …." She rests a hand on his bicep, daring a more prolonged contact with his soft, silk-smooth suit. His gaze follows her arm to her fingertips in a slow, suspicious sweep. He shifts his body away, deliberate and tense. So much for that. She withdraws her hand, and adds a quick, wry, "Sorry."

"It's quite all right."

The organ music ceases as the last of the procession reaches the front, replaced by the harmonized, soprano sounds of the choir. The thurifer drifts around the altar with the smoking thurible. Father Ricardo stands off-center by the lectern.

The choir ceases as Father Ricardo raises both hands to intone, "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."

"Amen," echoes the congregation as they all cross themselves.

Lucifer skips that part, muttering, "My dad is not a bloody hydra, you know. He's only the one being."

"Lucifer," Ella whispers as they draw some frowns and odd looks from their pew buddies. "Open mind, okay? You promised."

"I promised to attend, Ms. Lopez. I said nothing of my participation in this inanity."

She gives him another look. He quiets, offering only a roll of his eyes in reply.

"Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ," adds Father Ricardo.

"And with your spirit," replies the congregation, though Lucifer remains silent.

"Brothers and sisters," sings Father Ricardo, "let us acknowledge our sins, and so prepare ourselves to celebrate the sacred mysteries."

"Oh, yes, let's all _celebrate_ that my dad doesn't bloody explain anything," Lucifer scoffs.

 _Lucifer_ , Ella mouths, glaring, and again, he settles.

Father Ricardo switches from chanting to talking when he adds, "I confess to Almighty God and to you, my brothers and sisters," and Ella and the congregation join in, "that I have greatly sinned, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and in what I have failed to do …."

Lucifer grips the back of the pew in front of them, his lips forming a grim line, though he says nothing.

Yet it's not until she's babbling, "Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault," and Lucifer's posture is getting stiffer and stiffer, that what she's asked of him really sinks in.

She brought him here to share in her _love_ , in her _faith,_ not in guilt or punishment. And if he's as literal-not-allegorical as he seems to be, well ….

Well, _shirt_.

She really did just ask the Devil to open confession. Didn't she?

* * *

With the exception of the night after Homecoming her senior year—when her _abuelita_ caught her sneaking out through the upstairs window to see _Sorority House Massacre_ with her brothers—Ella has never experienced a more excruciating ninety minutes. No matter how many times she gestures toward the back exit, offering to leave early, Lucifer won't budge. "A deal is a deal," is all he grits out repeatedly under his breath when she tries to give him an out. And it's awful.

_Awful._

Father Ricardo covers Revelation 22 during the sermon. Because, of course, he does.

"'I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end,'" he reads from the Bible. "'Blessed are those who wash their robes, that they may have the right to the tree of life and that they may enter the city by the gates. Outside are the dogs and sorcerers and fornicators and murderers and idolaters, and every one who loves and practices falsehood.'"

Each new word seems to lash Lucifer like a whip, and all expression seeps out of his face, replaced by a dire sort of blankness that makes Ella ache. She can't even laugh when Lucifer dumps ten crisp Benjamins and three unopened condom wrappers onto the offering plate amidst everyone else's nickels and quarters and dollar bills, because empathy has crushed her heart to bits.

Shirt, shirt, _shirt_.

Why did she _ever_ think this would be a good idea?

When the service releases for the night, Lucifer glances at her, still expressionless, and says in a honey-rich-but-empty tone, "Well, then. Are you quite satisfied?"

She blinks at him, gaping. "Of _course_ , I'm not—"

"Satisfied with the conclusion of our _deal_ , Ms. Lopez," he clarifies. "Do you consider my end of the bargain fulfilled?"

"Sure, but—"

"Excellent." He brushes past her, stepping into the aisle with his long legs and shiny shoes that click against the stone floor tiles.

"Lucifer, wait!"

The people in the pew one row up turn to her, frowning intensely, crossing themselves. "What?" Ella huffs as he stalks away, adding, "It's his _name_ ," before she races after him.

* * *

The first major rain of the year fell earlier that day. Wet, chilly air embraces her in a shocking hug as she darts onto the stone steps that form St. Brennan's entrance. She squints into the darkness, a shiver snapping through her frame. Lucifer stands at the corner under the faint halogen glow of a streetlamp. The flicker of flame from his lighter gives his face an otherworldly glow as he sparks life into a cigarette.

"I'm really sorry," she says, jogging up to him. "I didn't … I didn't mean to subject you to … to … well … that."

"Subject me to what?" he replies, taking a long drag. "The truth?"

She folds her arms. "That wasn't the truth."

"Of course, it was," he says too reasonably. "I'm a fornicator, after all. And a liar—the Great Deceiver, even—if you believe in your … book."

"I _don't_."

"You just finished explaining that you do."

"As an _allegory_!"

He snorts derisively. "It would seem I'm in great allegorical company, then, what with the dogs, the sorcerers, the idolaters, and the mur—" He grinds to a halt on the word murderer, jaw clenching and unclenching, and looks away.

"Hey," she says, and he bristles. "Hey, I just …." She shakes her head. Why is she even …? "No, no, you're _not_ in great company, Lucifer—you're not in any company at _all_ in that list, because that isn't you—and this _isn't_ what I meant."

"Really." His disbelief hangs like a thick fog in the air.

She clenches her fists and takes a sharp, frustrated breath. "When I invited you to this thing, I wasn't thinking about Catholicism's guilt complex. Like, hoo boy, do we have one, I'll be the first to admit, but really, my goal wasn't to shove it down your throat or anything. I wasn't trying to proselytize. Your so-called sins didn't even enter my mind when I asked you along, and if I'd known today was gonna be a deep dive into damnation, I wouldn't have brought you. I swear."

"Then what _were_ you thinking of when you invited me?" he says, flicking ash into the street.

"I was thinking about—" She shrugs. "—about spreading the love."

His incredulous expression hurts her to her soul.

"I mean, I believe the most fundamental truth about God is that He loves us," she rushes to explain. "All of us. Unconditionally. Like, no matter who we've been or what we've done. And sometimes you seem like you could use a spoonful of that. The unconditional love thing. Particularly lately."

His bitter laugh makes her flinch. "You've … _no_ bloody idea the irony, do you?"

She winces. "You could tell me?"

"My father's love is the very _definition_ of conditional," he snaps. "That's why He threw me away in the first place."

Her heart constricts, and she steps closer, though she's careful to give him a small bubble of space. "Lucifer …."

"And the truth is," he says in a softer voice as he looks at the pavement, "I'm beginning to think I deserved it."

"Nobody deserves not to be loved. Least of all you."

His eyebrows knit. "How can you …?"

"Pshh," she says with a dismissive wave before he can finish spluttering. "Like you don't think I notice you being a big ol' teddy bear, no matter how prickly and I'm-the-bloody-Devil-cactus-don't-you-dare-hug-me you try to act." He arches an eyebrow at her terrible attempt at an English accent, and she races to continue, "It's obvs. I mean … _obvs,_ buddy. I'm not sorry to say."

His mouth twists into the beginnings of a sneer. "I've done things."

She looks up at him. "Well, what things?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Does this have anything to do with the creepy not-grave grave you had me looking at earlier?"

He looks away.

She reaches for his sleeve, careful to pinch only the fabric, and tugs him toward the old wooden bench set into the hedge lining the other side of the walk. He doesn't budge, like he's some kind of mountain, not a man, and she loses her pincer-like grasp on his coat within a stride. "Come on, Lucifer," she encourages, hoping her words will do what her muscles can't, "sit."

"I'm not one of the dogs."

"Jeez, buddy, I didn't mean it like that."

He glowers into space. "You're doing quite a lot of things you don't _mean_ , aren't you?"

"That's fair," she admits. She regards the bench for a moment. And then him. And then the bench. Maybe, he'd be a bit less prickly pear if she made this a _quid pro quo_ thing? She settles onto the bench, crossing her legs as she leans backward. The wood is cold and wet, and the back of the bench doesn't form quite the right curve to fit with human anatomy. The sharp edges of the wooden slats poke into her spine, and frigid raindrops seep through her jeans and her shirt, but she wrestles her grimace into a smile. "Ooh, so comfy."

He gives her a flat, humorless look and doesn't budge.

"Please, talk to me?" she asks.

He looks away again. "I … I can't."

"What about Decker? If you can't talk to me, at least talk to—"

"I _can't_ ," he repeats, his words wavering on the razor edge between composure and desperation.

"Why not? I'm sure she'd listen."

"Because I did it _for her_."

His words are small, almost inaudible. And new context marches into place like solemn pallbearers beside a casket. Her stomach flips. "It?"

"Bloody—" He shakes his head, grinding his molars. "—never mind."

The distant chatter of voices tickles her ears as the congregation trickles out of the church. A car swishes by on the still-damp street, its windshield wipers screeching across mostly dry glass. The smoke from Lucifer's cigarette curls into the night. In the dim light, his eyes seem almost … wet. Like the glistening, oil-streaked pavement at their feet.

"Lucifer, I don't know if you noticed, since you were so busy with the inward _mea_ super _culpas_ to pay much attention to the rest of it, but we Catholics aren't just hooked on guilt. I mean, it's great and all—yay for self-flagellation—but guilt isn't our drug of choice."

"What, you're in it for the communion wine as well?" he snarks, flicking ash onto the sidewalk before taking another long drag. "Getting sozzled every Sunday?"

"No. Forgiveness."

He says nothing.

"Anything can be forgiven," she says, looking up at him. "You just … you know … have to ask."

"That's how you think this works?" he scoffs. "I say, 'I'm sorry,' and bygones are bygones."

She takes a breath. "For what it's worth, Lucifer, _I_ forgive you."

"You've no idea what I've done!"

"I don't need to. I know _you_."

"I'm beginning to think you don't bloody know me at all."

"I know there's a creepy not-grave grave. I'm a puzzle solver. And I'm not stupid."

His cigarette tumbles from his fingers, landing on the pavement by his shoe. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, his pale skin slipping behind dark fabric as he shifts to stomp out the glowing butt. For a moment, he won't look at her, instead choosing a point of fixation several blocks down from them in the dark. His lower lip trembles. Just a shiver before he contains himself.

"Ms. … Ms. Lopez, I …." His words are soft and lost before he trails away, shaking his head.

"Could the law have handled it?" she murmurs.

His lower lip trembles again, and he tips his body away from her. "No," he says, his voice low and deep and twisted in his throat. "Not remotely. And it's not as simple as saying I'm sorry—though I am and will be for all my days—because I would bloody well do it again. And again. And _again_."

She stares at his jutting shoulder for a heartbeat before rising to her feet and then closing the gap between them. "I just think," she says as she sidles close, "there's a lot more to life than black and white." She peers at him in profile. At the sharp lines of his nose and the cleft of his chin. "And if you say it was for Decker, well, okay, then. I have faith in you. Thank you for protecting my friend."

He sniffs. "Ms. Lopez, I am the _Devil_."

"Yeah?" She shrugs. "And I'm a retired car thief. We've all got something."

"That's … that's not the bloody same."

"Isn't it?"

He glances furtively at her, just as a blink sends a glistening track spilling down his cheek. With his onset of grief, he peers away again, his inhalation deep and shuddering as he swipes at his face with his purple pocket square. His right shoulder—the shoulder closest to her—hunches forward like he means for it to be a shield. From her. Her first instinct is to shake her head at his rampant insecurity and wrap her arms around him anyway, but she tamps the urge by clasping her hands together, digging her nails into skin.

"If you ever do want to talk about it," she offers, "or, you know, _anything_ , I'm always around. Like Superman, but shorter."

"How can you be so bloody … _kind_ ," he rasps.

"See?" She nods toward the church, smiling. "It's not all bad."

"I'm aware, or I'd never have made that deal with you."

A lump forms in her throat. "Really?"

A watery, sad smile tugs at his lips. "I'd a friend who was a priest, you know. I didn't know him long, but he was … dear … to me. And I don't say that of many people." He frowns. "Of _any_ people, really. Not until … quite recently."

She nods. "I get that."

His frown deepens as he regards her. "Do you?"

"Well, you just came from Hell, right? Five years ago, you said?"

He regards her, expression calculating.

"I'm not stupid," she reiterates.

Lines encroach around his eyes and wrinkle his forehead. "No," he agrees slowly, tilting his head. "No, you're … not."

"And I mean, you _never_ break from that role. Really, you're so _good_."

Another car passes by, its headlights illuminating his face. His grief is all but gone, now, replaced by something more contemplative. He inches closer, and butterflies kick up in her gut as the soft tickle of his cologne breaks through the earthy scent of petrichor. The Devil. Some devil. She wonders what Father Ricardo would think if he'd known who was in the audience that night, and she can't help the hysterical little laugh that pops loose as her nerves give it flight.

"Ms. Lopez?" Lucifer says, blinking.

Turning, she takes a deep breath and raises her arms, giving him ample chance to say no, but … he doesn't.

"So, tell me about your friend," she prods as she pulls him into the hug she's been dying to give him all night.

"His name was Father Frank." Lucifer's arms close awkwardly around her. "Also quite a big proponent of forgiveness, he was. You'd have liked him."

"I'm sure I would have," she muses against his soft lapel.

"Perhaps you might consider joining his former congregation? It's far less … punitive."

"I thought you said the last two times you'd visited a church were—"

"I've … perhaps listened in on a few services from the sidewalk to assure my donations were spent wisely."

"What?" She steps backward to gape at him. "No _way_."

He regards her with a quivering, almost laughing look. "Way, Ms. Lopez." He puts the word way in air quotes, and she bounces on her feet, clapping.

"I _knew_ my Spidey-sense wasn't lying! I _knew_ it! Rock on, dude!"

Her praise seems to baffle him into a genuine laugh.

She jabs an index finger at him, which only seems to delight him more. "I wish you'd told me. I would have taken you to that Mass, instead."

"Yes, well."

She grabs his wrist before he can look away, giving him a squeeze. "Tell me more about Father Frank?"

He peers at her like she's a math problem he can't quite solve.

"Please?" she adds.

Her entreaty seems to break his last resolve. With a small nod, he liberates a gleaming silver flask from somewhere in the endless, magical depths of his inner coat pockets and offers her a sip of the finest Scotch she's ever tasted. It's earthy and full of peat.

"Wow, where'd you get this?" she asks. "This sh-stuff is _smooth_."

He shrugs. "Scotland. Though the more appropriate question might be _when_."

She goggles at the flask, her nose wrinkling in suspicion. "Okay, seriously, how much money did I just drink?"

With a sigh and a shake of his head, he directs a bemoaning, how-the-hell-did-I-ever-get-here expression skyward. "Less than I've donated to the bloody church, at least."

_~finis~_


End file.
